Truth Seeping Through The Cracks
by KnightOfNevermore
Summary: He is broken and bound. She is strong and free. So why does this man make her feel so scared, so readable, so alive? "Everything will be alright," she says, lying through her teeth. "Thank you," he replies. His words are all she needs to fall to pieces.


**A/N: **Enjoy.

* * *

"I wonder why… is it greed? No, certainty not… you don't seem the type..."

The man idly twirls the stale roll between his fingers, scratching small flakes of bread off the hardened crust: crumbles dancing across his blood soaked pants and landing in a muddle mess on his combat boots, dusting the ropes that crisscrossed over his whole body, rendering him helpless and immobile…

Yet he acted as if he did not have a care in the world.

"Lust?" A dark chuckle and smirk," If this was a James Bond movie maybe…"

He sweeps his mocking gaze to meet her cold emotionless eyes, dark and unreadable. He scoured her body for any signs of fatigue, for any markers of an emotional burden that should weigh upon her shoulders. His blood-shot eyes wander aimless across her stiff body, finally settling on the logo on her bulletproof vest, an insignia clean and sharp, yet dirtied and tainted with the blood of thousands.

"Jealousy? Hate? Love? There are so many things… yet you seem to defy them all…"

He toys with the idea of revenge, an elaborate plan that's final blow could be landed on anyone.

"Now I see why Leon finds you so fascinating…"

Her eyes sharpen- a flicker of emotion lights up her onyx eyes- Hate? Love? Fear? Longing? He doesn't know what to think anymore, he is sick of the daily battle of wits, and he is sick of the games.

She cuts in sharply, her voice laced with venom," Didn't your mother ever tell you not to play with your food?"

He roars with laughter, all the pent emotions of fury and fear released in one bout of hysterical laughter. She stares at him in shock, and for the second time that day her eyes are visited by emotions; emotions which she had buried deep within her soul the minute she load her first round of lead into the soft tissue of a human brain.

"She might of mentioned that a couple of times, but isn't that more of a question for your boss? There is only so many games the prey can play until it becomes rotten and rancid from abuse."

A sneer formed on her lips, an expression which easily formed with increase of her visits to his cell.

"You're getting old and forgetful, Agent Redfield, rancid meat is his specialty."

"For an evil secret agent employed by a psychotic murdering bastard you're actually pretty funny."

"For an agent of the B.S.A.A. with over ten years of experience you're pretty weak."

She snarled back, breathing deeply as she attempted to rein her emotion, once again putting up her cold indifferent front, her favorite seductive smirk slid effortlessly into place, a routine she was so used to that it no longer required any though to it. However, ever since he had been captured and become Wesker's personal plaything, her mask molded from the horrors she had witnessed and the atrocity she had committed had slowly begun to fade, the unsettling rage and humanity seeping through the cracks in her façade. She barely held in the jump that her body had begun when her master's voice echoed through her earpiece, smooth and emotionless. She had never been able to repress the shiver that ran up her spine with the sound of him issuing her a command.

"Bring Agent Redfield to me, let us see if today he will be more… cooperative with our demands."

"Yes, Sir."

The reply was automatic and trained, years passed like minutes and the confirmation to his every demand had become mundane and plain, unchanging and emotionless, such a small phrase had become the most condemning evidence of her transformation from human to obedient slave to her master. Every madness driven whim and every heartless murderous plan was carried out with those same words,' Yes, Sir.'

Swallowing the hot, foul bile that had risen in her throat she turned to face the man tied to the bloodied and broken chair in front of her. In his hands lain the crushed and mutated roll, uneaten despite its wrecked form. She swallowed hard when he met her gaze. Hard, cold sleep deprived eyes met hers, one eye was swollen and a jagged gash decorated his right cheek. His body was tortured and broken, but against all odds his narrowed blue eyes scoured her own almond eyes for the meaning behind her confirmation to an unknown request.

"It's that time again isn't it? I hoped that I would have at least a couple more hours to away from that son of a bitch."

He smiled bitterly, wincing when he moved his cheek, a twisting trail of blood adorned his neck; painting over the multitude of bruises lining the abused flesh of his neck and bare chest.

"He doesn't like to be kept waiting," She replied curtly, crossing what little space the damp musty cell provided between them.

In the few seconds it took to reach him, she had drawn a wicked little blade from one of her vests many pockets and bent down to shred the heavy rope binding his legs to the strong oak chair. With a flick of the wrist the only remaining barrier between her and the prisoner were the rusting steel chains, a cuff on each wrist it wrapped around his raw back, intertwining itself intricately in the bars of the back of the chair, which was heavily bolted to the concrete floor. From her position crouching on the floor she looked up, only to met his scarred face again. He stared questioningly at her, as if he was attempting to solve a jigsaw puzzle, but with one piece missing. She quickly rose to her feet, breaking the connection between them. She strode to the back of the chair, relishing in the one spot where his eyes could not constantly follow her; watching her, judging her, breaking down every part of her soul until only the raw emotions remained. She gritted her teeth, wildly attempting to rein her muddled paranoid thoughts as she slid the knife back into its pocket and withdrew the key for the handcuffs.

Same old routine, same old emotions.

"Careful now, I might escape," he taunted, as she placed one gloved hand on his throat, pressing hard and she fiddled the key into the lock of the cuff on his right wrist, and for one quick instant he is free, no chains holding him down, the only thing stopping him form escaping was her. But who were they kidding. They both knew all to well that he could not escape, but still she took the precautions, reassuring him, deceiving him into believing that she still considered him a threat, and he played along. For the sake of his sanity he let himself be pitied and soothed by the enemy, he gave himself that indulgence of self-inflicted ignorance. A deception he knew he would pay dearly for.

And then it is over, she quickly unravels the chains from the back of the chain, a pattern she had quickly memorized on the first day of his containment. His wrists are yet again attached together, the long chain now in the grasp of the beautiful woman glaring down at him from her standing position. She yanks on the chains, the cold steel of the cuffs grazing hard over the ripped and torn flesh of his wrists. He hisses and stumbles to his feet, biting back a gasp when he lands awkwardly on his shattered anklebone, a stream of expletives issuing from his chapped lips. The bread roll that had been balancing precariously on his thigh fell to the dirtied floor, rolling into the shallow pool of blood that had formed underneath his chair. She shows no reaction to his apparent pain and only pulls on the chains again, ignoring the obvious height difference between them. At an excruciatingly slow pace the odd pair exit the holding cell; her pulling his the chains that bound his two wrists together like reins, and him trailing slowly behind, wincing in pain with every step he took.

The dimly lit hall smelled of medicine and blood. The aroma so familiar to his senses from his frequent visits to hospitals only fueled the burning nauseous pit in the depths of his stomach. Her long, smooth strides were put off balance be her tenant's awkward, heavily favored stumble. Through the dim light of the flickering fluorescent light overhead he could make out the pair of doors that were his own personal River Styx, the gateway to hell. Beyond those doors sat a man who have destroyed his life and forced him to build anew, his fragmented sanity barely recovered after all these years. With each step the muffling, suffocating presence of that man slowly consumes the barely mobile prisoner.

Ten, nine, eight, seven six five…. The countdown has become almost normal for him, as he runs through the slowly decreasing number of steps remaining between him and his torturer. And all too soon the last step has disappeared and she abruptly stops, the incessant taps of her high heels ending and his labored breathing seemed impossibly loud without her beat to accompany the harsh gasps.

"We are here," she states. Earning a bemused glance from him, that was not unnoticed by her.

"I may have not sleep in seventy-two hours, but I can still see, you haven't take my sight from me yet." He chuckles darkly with this declaration, half at the possibility buried in his words and her expression, or lack thereof.

"Yet," She mutters softly as she drops his chains to the floor, the clattering of the steel on tile echoes down the abandoned hall, the ghostly noise sweeping into every abandoned room embedded in the wall and into his cell, where a stale roll lays forgotten, slowly soaking up the blood decorating the floor.

With this last sentiment she raises her gloved hand to her earpiece, pressing the small button on it to activate the microphone "I have brought him."

The smirk could be heard in his voice as the monster that called himself her boss replied, "Send him in."

"Yes, sir." Those words again… She swallows hard and carries out her assignment.

"You are to enter now," she says to him, not meeting his world-weary eyes with her own.

"Right." He replies, reaching past her he takes a firm grip on the door handle, walking past her, and when he hesitates, his hand shaking ever so slightly she quietly utters words she never believed would ever fall from her lips," Everything will be alright."

A lie that they both lived for, another lie to keep their fragile minds intact.

His eyes widen, and she immediately regrets her words, and she turns to go, but is stopped by a calloused hand catching her wrist, Her whole body tenses ready to strike, she whips around- and is met by a smiling face.

His chapped and bleeding lip were quirked in a smile, a smile that was a blend of a bitter smile of acceptance and one filled with nostalgia and remorse.

"Thank you, Ada," is all he says, and with those parting words he releases his hold on her wrist and wrenches the doors open, entering the room in which his life is no more than a playing card in the deck of madman who believes himself God.

He thanks her for lying. These two words were final blow to her mentality, shattering whatever hopes she had of simply forgetting the man that is slowly dying in the clutches of her master.

It is a longtime before Ada gather's her wits again, and she is shocked to find that more than five minutes had passed until her mind finally stopped replaying his words over and over again. It is then that Ada Wong realizes why the man known as Chris Redfield is so different from the rest. Her cleverly built mask of lies easily traps and enthralls Leon and her desperate clinging to the very same façade is what entertains Wesker so. But for Chris Redfield she is not about the façade, it is about what is behind that mask.

Ada always believed that the person she feared the most was her master Albert Wesker, but now, she find herself petrified of his nemesis, all because of how easily he broke her down.

They have sunk so deep into this game of insanity that he thanks her for giving him false hopes, for deciving him into a dream of safety. And tomorrow the same game will be played again, and the next day and the next, until her master finally decides that his toy is no longer interesting and ends whatever life he has left in him. The idea of having to face him tomorrow and go through the same emotions and actions again and again, or never hearing the words that break her down so easily ever again; she doesn't know which one scares her the most.

Ada Wong had never been so terrified in her life.

* * *

**A/N2:** YO! Well folks, I hope you enjoyed my random thing. Here, you are open to interpret it how you like, an odd friendship story, an angsty story, a hurt/comfort story, and even, if there are some people out there who like the crack pairing of Ada and Chris, a Romance story. Now for my attempt at an explanation: I always wondered what it would be like for these two to meet, I don't really know why, maybe it's my Redfield complex speaking. So I checked to see if there were any stories: and there were none. So I thought, hell, might as well write one myself. The whole prisoner thing I can blame on the Revelations trailer (if you haven't watched it yet: GO WATCH IT NOW!) cause at the beginning with the Chris impostor(?) tied to the chair. (And for those who watched the trailer: is it just me or does he kinda sound like Lord Blackwood from the new Sherlock Holmes?) I also apologize of how OOC Ada is, it is my first time writing her, hopefully it wasn't so bad as to totally ruin the story for you. So if there is anyone out there, anyone at all who read this story, **please leave me a review**, becuase to tell you the truth I'm not expecting anything to come from this story. So even if it's: LOLWHUT?, **any review** would be like a giant batch of cinnamon apple cider on a fall day (YUM!). Thanks guys for reading, and I really do hope that you enjoyed it, despite the odd combination of characters.


End file.
